Your Love; My Dream

Love is a crazy thing.
If a man is made to love a woman,
I should have given my love to all women I've known equally.

If Your Love Was For Me

If your love was for me,
Be it, not of the face
For I know, there's prettier face
And you will chase after those faces
Once you realise you need that kind of man.

If your love was for me,
Be it, not of the wealth
For I know, there's wealthier person
And you will chase after them
Once you realise you need that kind of man.

Unity Is Strength

This picture reminds me of a story I once heard in my childhood. And there is goodness in the story that I wanna share it with you.

Author- Anonymous

There was once a farmer whose sons were always quarreling. No matter what he said to them they would soon started over again. One day he decided that he would give them a lesson. 
“Come, my sons,” he said. “I want you to go into the woods and each of you come back with some sticks for the fire.” 
The sons went off and after awhile they returned with the sticks. 

The Tale of Autumn (Happiness Lost)

(First ever story written by me)

Aubrey and Cecil lost their parents soon after they celebrated their 12 and 8 birthday. There was a rumor in the town that the couple was murdered by poisoning; however their uncle, only blood relative they had, declared it was suicide. Hence, the case was closed as Suicide.

Within a trimester of their parents death, their uncle clutched their house and everything they had without mercy, leaving them homeless and a pauper instead of helping them, because their uncle was poor and fascinated their pelf because it would makes him a millionaire. He threw them out without clemency and there’s no one was to defend them. The man’s wife did nothing to prevent her husband from doing this cruel thing to her children. In the slum, the streets and waiting sheds becomes their home and their shelter. What they wear were all that they had.

The sun was their antagonist during the day and the winds were at night. The pouring rains were their worst enemy. They fight against the cruelty of the world themselves. They ate whatever people discarded in the street and the little that Aubrey earns from hard work for someone. The street was so chock-a-block of a pauper that Aubrey couldn’t find works most of the time and they starved most of the day.

As he was Cecil’s dependent now, Aubrey only eat when Cecil was filled. He would watches Cecil ate while he swallows his saliva as if it was his food. Cecil asked him to eat with him but he only say that he already had and sometime he ended the day without an ounce of food into his stomach. He filled his empty stomach with water because that’s all he had for free. He never says he was hungry in front of his younger brother though he was most of the time. He shed tears of blood but he would never show his tears to his younger brother.

If their parent were alive, they would leisurely lolling in the room, go to school or play around, but Aubrey don't wanna think so because it would only enhance his miseries. Every night Aubrey cuddled his younger brother to thwart Cecil from freezing while he freezes himself. Their health deteriorated much but they have nothing to keep themselves in the pink.

The Tale of Autumn

Aubrey and Cecil lost their parents soon after they celebrated their 12 and 8 birthday. There was a rumor in the town that the couple was murdered by poisoning; however their uncle, only blood relative they had, declared it was suicide. Hence, the case was closed as Suicide.

Within a trimester of their parents death, their uncle clutched their house and everything they had without mercy, leaving them homeless and a pauper instead of helping them, because their uncle was poor and fascinated their pelf which would makes him a millionaire. He threw them out without clemency and there’s no one was to defend them. The man’s wife did nothing to prevent her husband from doing this cruel thing to her children. In the slum, the streets and waiting sheds becomes their home and their shelter. What they wear were all that they had.

The sun was their antagonist during the day and the winds were at night. The pouring rains were their worst enemy. They fight against the cruelty of the world themselves. They ate whatever people discarded in the street and the little that Aubrey earns from hard work for someone. The street was so chock-a-block of a pauper that Aubrey couldn’t find works most of the time and they starved most of the day.

Devoted Friend

THE DEVOTED FRIEND
Oscar Wilde.

One morning the old Water-rat put his head out of his hole. He had bright beady eyes and stiff grey whiskers and his tail was like a long bit of black india-rubber. The little ducks were swimming about in the pond, looking just like a lot of yellow canaries, and their mother, who was pure white with real red legs, was trying to teach them how to stand on their heads in the water.
“You will never be in the best society unless you can stand on your heads,” she kept saying to them; and every now and then she showed them how it was done. But the little ducks paid no attention to her. They were so young that they did not know what an advantage it is to be in society at all.
“What disobedient children!” cried the old Water-rat; “they really deserve to be drowned.”
“Nothing of the kind,” answered the Duck, “every one must make a beginning, and parents cannot be too patient.”
“Ah! I know nothing about the feelings of parents,” said the Water-rat; “I am not a family man. In fact, I have never been married, and I never intend to be. Love is all very well in its way, but friendship is much higher. Indeed, I know of nothing in the world that is either nobler or rarer than a devoted friendship.”
“And what, pray, is your idea of the duties of a devoted friend?” asked a Green Linnet, who was sitting in a willow-tree hard by, and had overheard the conversation.
“Yes, that is just what I want to know,” said the Duck; and she swam away to the end of the pond, and stood upon her head, in order to give her children a good example.
“What a silly question!” cried the Water-rat. “I should expect my devoted friend to be devoted to me, of course.”
“And what would you do in return?” said the little bird, swinging upon a silver spray, and flapping his tiny wings.
“I don’t understand you,” answered the Water-rat.
“Let me tell you a story on the subject,” said the Linnet.
“Is the story about me?” asked the Water-rat. “If so, I will listen to it, for I am extremely fond of fiction.”
“It is applicable to you,” answered the Linnet; and he flew down, and alighting upon the bank, he told the story of The Devoted Friend.
“Once upon a time,” said the Linnet, “there was an honest little fellow named Hans.”
“Was he very distinguished?” asked the Water-rat.
“No,” answered the Linnet, “I don’t think he was distinguished at all, except for his kind heart, and his funny round good-humoured face. He lived in a tiny cottage all by himself, and every day he worked in his garden. In all the country-side there was no garden so lovely as his. Sweet-william grew there, and Gilly-flowers, and Shepherds’-purses, and Fair-maids of France. There were damask Roses, and yellow Roses, lilac Crocuses, and gold, purple Violets and white. Columbine and Ladysmock, Marjoram and Wild Basil, the Cowslip and the Flower-de-luce, the Daffodil and the Clove-Pink bloomed or blossomed in their proper order as the months went by, one flower taking another flower’s place, so that there were always beautiful things to look at, and pleasant odours to smell.
“Little Hans had a great many friends, but the most devoted friend of all was big Hugh the Miller. Indeed, so devoted was the rich Miller to little Hans, that be would never go by his garden without leaning over the wall and plucking a large nosegay, or a handful of sweet herbs, or filling his pockets with plums and cherries if it was the fruit season.
“‘Real friends should have everything in common,’ the Miller used to say, and little Hans nodded and smiled, and felt very proud of having a friend with such noble ideas.
“Sometimes, indeed, the neighbours thought it strange that the rich Miller never gave little Hans anything in return, though he had a hundred sacks of flour stored away in his mill, and six milch cows, and a large flock of woolly sheep; but Hans never troubled his head about these things, and nothing gave him greater pleasure than to listen to all the wonderful things the Miller used to say about the unselfishness of true friendship.
“So little Hans worked away in his garden. During the spring, the summer, and the autumn he was very happy, but when the winter came, and he had no fruit or flowers to bring to the market, he suffered a good deal from cold and hunger, and often had to go to bed without any supper but a few dried pears or some hard nuts. In the winter, also, he was extremely lonely, as the Miller never came to see him then.
“‘There is no good in my going to see little Hans as long as the snow lasts,’ the Miller used to say to his wife, ‘for when people are in trouble they should be left alone, and not be bothered by visitors. That at least is my idea about friendship, and I am sure I am right. So I shall wait till the spring comes, and then I shall pay him a visit, and he will be able to give me a large basket of primroses and that will make him so happy.’
“‘You are certainly very thoughtful about others,’ answered the Wife, as she sat in her comfortable armchair by the big pinewood fire; ‘very thoughtful indeed. It is quite a treat to hear you talk about friendship. I am sure the clergyman himself could not say such beautiful things as you do, though he does live in a three-storied house, and wear a gold ring on his little finger.’
“‘But could we not ask little Hans up here?’ said the Miller’s youngest son. ‘If poor Hans is in trouble I will give him half my porridge, and show him my white rabbits.’

Happy Prince

The best story ever written!!!

 Written by: Oscar Wilde

High above the city, on a tall column, stood the statue of the Happy Prince.  He was gilded all over with thin leaves of fine gold, for eyes he had two bright sapphires, and a large red ruby glowed on his sword-hilt.
He was very much admired indeed.  “He is as beautiful as a weathercock,” remarked one of the Town Councillors who wished to gain a reputation for having artistic tastes; “only not quite so useful,” he added, fearing lest people should think him unpractical, which he really was not.
“Why can’t you be like the Happy Prince?” asked a sensible mother of her little boy who was crying for the moon.  “The Happy Prince never dreams of crying for anything.”
“I am glad there is some one in the world who is quite happy,” muttered a disappointed man as he gazed at the wonderful statue.